


Draco In the City

by Hunter_Caprittarius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Molly Weasley, BAMF Molly Weasley, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Cute Kids, Fluff, Good Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts First Year, How Do I Tag, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Winter, Young Draco Malfoy, Young Harry Potter, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 03:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16865374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_Caprittarius/pseuds/Hunter_Caprittarius
Summary: Basically, a super fluffy, self-indulgent fic about Draco getting lost while on a Death Eater excursion,  Home Alone style,  and ending up with the Weasleys' for Christmas.





	1. Ottery Saint Catchpole

Winter was arriving at Malfoy Manor, it was coming down in fluffy white sheets of snow.

Everything from the manor's Gothic spirals to the twisted black gate out front was coated in a thick layer of sparkling white snow. Every pristine surface was perfect, unbroken, as all things should be with the Malfoys.

However, the child who's face was currently plastered against the bay window disagreed. Young Draco Malfoy wanted nothing more than to pull the old flying broom out of the closet and tumble around, be the first one to break the snow's surface, to claim it as his own.

Narcissia might have let him on any other day, but today was special. Lucius Malfoy would have an aneurysm if the Death Eaters arrived and his son was outside frolicking in pajamas.

Today was Lucius's chance to really concrete his place among the rearising Death Eaters, preparing for the return of their Lord. He and Narcissia were going to attend the meeting in upper London and the manor was being used as a rendezvous point. Of course, they couldn't possibly leave Draco alone while the went away, the last time the boy was left unsupervised for a length of time Lucius returned to find him making nice with the house elves. Unacceptable.

So it was decided that Draco should come along and gain the invaluable experience provided by Lord Voldemort's cult–ahem–I mean, esteemed organization of followers.

What a wonderful idea, right?

Now keep in mind, at this time Draco was still but twelve, only home on Christmas break during his first year at Hogwarts: a short boy, quite short for his age, actually, not yet grown into the sharp cheekbones he was sure to inherit from his father. Now just throw him in the mix with a bunch of psychotic dark wizards.

Yeah, genius. What could go wrong?

At the present, Narcissia was bustling about, fixing and straightening things. She picked up a vase and moved around her husband to put it in the other room.

Lucius was sitting stoically in the middle of the room, halds folded and face set in a deep scowl. This was the closest to meditation the man got.

Draco was still crouched by the window, watching obediently for Father's "friends". He curled his pale fingers, drawing lines in the fog on the inside of the window.

"Father?" Lucius didn't move.

"Father!"

"What Draco?" Lucius snapped.

"Your friends are here." Draco replied saucily.

Lucius glared indignantly at his son but got up and strode out, towards the main hall, to answer the door. Narcissia jumped a little and straightened one last portrait before following after Lucius.

Draco looked out the window again, frowning at the dirty footprints the arriving men and women had left in his perfect snow. From the other room he could hear his parents talking.

The doors burst open and Aunt Bellatrix swooped in like a dark bird of prey, grabbing Draco's cheeks with her painted talons. His mother had practically begged him not to bite Bellatrix this time so Draco fought with feeble kicks and punches. Bellatrix cackled with delight.

"I missed you, ya little bugger!"

"Yeah," Draco replied lamely, batting Ballatrix's hair out of his face.

The Death Eaters milled around as more dark robed members arrived. Some of them used the front door like respectable wizards while others preferred to apparate directly into the room, like barbarians. Finally, the trickle of wizards stopped and Lucius announced that it was time to head out. Draco grabbed hold of his mother and aunt's skirts, choosing to ignore the way they squabbled over his head.

To avoid looking conspicuous, the large group split into several smaller groups and left at varied intervals. Lucius, of course, was in the first group. Draco, Bellatrix, and Narcissia, however, were in the very last group.

"Remember," Narcissa told Draco, "since the ministry floos are all public, you have to be of age to use them. So make sure you stick with one of us."

Draco just nodded.

By the time the last group left it was snowing even harder: almost a blizzard. The harsh wind whipped everyone's clothes around and Draco clenched his fists until his knuckles turned as white as the snow, trying to keep a hold on the women's skirts; they, in turn, each grabbed one of his shoulders.

They braved the weather, surging forward like soldiers huddled together as they marched towards a frostbitten battle. All of a sudden, buildings began to materialize out of the white haze, but still they pressed on When the shaded brick of the ministry finially came into view, the press of the group doubled in one last sprint out of the cold.

A warm air rushed out of the ministry doors, swathing every body in welcome as they tumbled through. The space was huge, comparable in size to Hogwarts' great hall; only the aged brick was replaced with sleek, intimidating black stone and the mighty columns were substituted for rows of floo networks on either side. Each black fireplace was spitting green flames as tall as the average wizard. To finish off the scene, hundreds of wizards strode this way and that way, their tailored coats trailing behind them.

"There!" One of the Death Eaters cried out over the furious hum and pointed with a gloved hand. His finger was directed across the hall at the nearest floo–although, for being the nearest, it was a considerable ways away, especially with a crowd of that size movong too and fro–just as the tail of a Death Eater's black coat disappeared in its green fire.

Bellatrix let go of Draco's shoulder in order to fish a pocketwatch out of her garments. "Damn, we're late!"

Narcissa then released Draco's other shoulder in favor of snatching Bellatrix's watch away to gasp at it.

Seeing as his aunt and mother had let go, Draco decided to do so as well, untangling his fingers from the fabric of their skirts and instead burying them his pockets. It took him a moment to register when the entire group bolted forward.

The young boy sprinted after them, unfortunately not able to achieve the same speed. "Mom!" He shouted but the sound was swollowd. He called again to no avail.

His light eyes dedicatedly tracked his mother's dress as she swerved through the mass. All of a sudden, someone collided with him, sending Draco sliding across the cold floor. The person was gone in a flash and Draco was left to fight his way back up through the rapidly moving legs. Shoes scuffed and squeaked loudly against the tile as he scanned the crowd frantically.

There, out of the corner if his eye, Draco spotted black lace, Aunt Bellatrix. He set off after her at full speed, doing his best to unapologeticly push and shove his way through like he'd seen his father do on all of his outings.

He caught up to Bellatrix just as she stepped into the floo with her fist full of floo powder. He threw himself in with her as she shouted the destination.

Only she shouted the wrong thing. As he jumped, Draco was sure he could hear her yell, "Ottery Saint Catchpole!"

That wasn't right. Uh-oh. 


	2. Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short little chapter.

Green flames engulfed Draco and the woman wearing black lace, Bellatrix, he'd assumed. She shreiked for a moment before the sound was cut off by the both of them suddenly swirling away.

The swirling stopped and they arrived on the other side: the woman–decideldly not Bellatrix–came out standing, Draco, on the other hand, tumbled to the floor. Almost immediately, several pairs of hands descended upon the small boy, yanking him up by his jacket in such a way that the hood fell over his face. Unable to see, Draco thrashed around with reckless abandon. His pale fists collided with someone's face and that person, out of pure instinct, shoved him roughly which broke him free of the other people's grasps.

As soon as he felt the ground beneath his feet, he ran, his assailants hardly had time to pull out their wands. Briefly, Draco glanced back and saw the not-Bellatrix and a few others watching him leave.

He only had a short second to celebrate his escape before a station guard broke through the crowd, chasing after him at a furious sprint. The man's face was redder than a ripe tomato and in his fist a black wand was pointed and ready.

Draco whipped back around and ran even faster, his pudgy face going white with fear and cold. He swerved past legs and station benches, letting out a childish whine as he did.

When he next looked back, the man was even closer, pushing his way through with his big arms and long legs. Draco's short, skinny self didn't stand a chance trying to outrun the guard, and the little boy realized it. So, when the next bench approached, instead of turning to avoid it, Draco made a beeline straight for it. Jumping on it, Draco pointed his wand at the guard, hoping to scare the man into either stopping or slowing down. When the man did neither, Draco turned his wand towards the window behind the bench instead.

"Aaaaahhh! Boom!"

He'd meant to shout a spell, obviously, but in his state of panic, everything he'd learned at school convieniently floated out the window. Instead of a spell, Draco shoulted "Boom!" at the top of his lungs and, miraculously, it worked anyways. The window shattered outwards. Placing one foot on the back of the bench, Draco threw himself out the open window.

•×•×•

Molly was stressed.

No, stressed doesn't quite describe how she was feeling. She was...drowning, both figuratively and literally. One, looking after nine children for the holidays (Ron, Ginny, Harry, Fred, George, Percy, Charlie, and, of course, Mr. Weasley) is extremely difficult. Two, she was holding so many bags and boxes in her arms, stacked on top of each other precariously, that she might as well have been suffocating.

If only she could reach her wand.... Darn.

Her tower of goodies swayed dangerously. "Oh. Oh!" She wobbled with it, barely saving herself from catastrophe.

Looking up, she spotted a large clock–its hands were both drooping down as if it were sad that no one bothered to stay for a while, instead rushing by without as much as a friendly word. Molly nearly chocked. She was late!

She set off at a near sprint, a difficult task considering her load and made it maybe twenty feet before a screaming meteor hit her directly in the back.

Bags and boxes flew into the air, coloring the sky.


	3. The Weasleys' Calendar

Molly Weasley let out a great thunderous cry as she said across the station floor, flat on her front like a seal. All of her bags and boxes were strewn about and there was an uncomfortable weight sprawled over her back.

The weight rolled off of Molly's back and, thinking it had been some animal of some sort, she fumbled for her wand, getting ready to blast whatever it was to kingdom come. Imagine her surprise when she found not a vicious beast that wanted to eat her Christmas presents but a small child. Not only was her wand pointed at a small child, but a crying child with bloody knees.

By that point a crowd of helpful passerby swooped to the scene and began picking up Molly's lost things, offering a variety of "Are you alright?"s and "Oh dear, let me help!"s. However, Molly was too busy dealing with the child to pay them too much mind.

"Oh dear," she said, tucking her wand away, "whatever happened to you?"

The child just sputtered and snivelled, big glassy tears rolling down his round face. That good-'ol mother's instinct kicked in and before Molly knew it she'd wrapped her coat tightly around the child.

She nodded and smiled and thanked everyone who'd stopped to help as her things were returned. Once everyone had gone back to their own business, Molly turned back to the child. He had light, whispy hair that was pressed against his forehead funny and large woeful blue eyes. Molly knelt down and looked right at the boy. He turned away.

Molly tsked, "Now don't be like that, you were the one who crashed into me. Now what's your name, love?"

The boy looked dreadfully uncomfortable but answered anyway (blame his pureblood manners), "Draco."

Molly smiled at him, "Oh I know, you're in some of Ron's classes! Do you know him?"

Draco was mildly horrified. In the recent chaos he'd been unable to recognize a Weasley! He could practically see his father's face getting red with fury. Did he know Ron? Of course he knew Ron! How could he ever forget the Weasly who'd not only ruined his chance at friendship with the chosen one but went out of his way to embody the very worst facets of Gryffindors? The things Ron said about Slytherin made Draco's blood boil! If he'd known how much of a pain in the ass Ron would become, Draco would have kicked the ginger headed menace off of a staircase.

Instead of answering Molly's question, Draco just sort of burbled in response.

Molly just shook her head, "Yes, yes, of course, more important things to do. Now do you know how to get home dear?"

Draco shook his head.

This made Molly frown, "Are your parents worried?"

Draco thought about the question, his face going sour. Were his parents worried? Mother might be but Father would more likely be mad. He'd stride over with his big stick and starts screaming so loudly that spit would fly everywhere. He'd probably even—even–

Draco blinked a few times, suddenly dizzy. He was standing completely still but the world seemed to be lurching from side to side.

Molly sighed and looked back up at the clock. She looked back down at Draco just in time to see him collapse.

Time slowed, the sky ruturn red, and Molly Weasley went into full panic mode.

•×•×•

The Weasleys had a calendar. It was was just like a muggle calendar except for the fact that it was about the size of a flatscreen TV and changed from month to month automatically, documenting everything that had been written in an organized system that could be recalled with a simple spell. It was decorated with pictures of many, many red-headed wizard children and its edges were scuffed and beaten from all of the times it had been knocked off the wall by a rouge spell or careless shoulder. Bill had tried spelling it to the wall once but had only succeeded in making the back of the thing uncomfortably sticky.

The calendar was used to document the chaotic schedules of the Wasleys: everything from Quidditch practices to family dinners to meeting dates was scribbled in its cramped margins.

But the calendar had another purpose. Whenever something of significance happened it was written in. The calendar had documentations of the birth of every Weasley child, who'd named every pet the family had had, every time the twins got in a fight and who won. It had documentations of the time Percy had gotten his pants spelled to the back of his head and the time when Ron and Ginny glued themselves together. Any time an argument needed to be settled or a family reunion was running out of embarrassing stories, someone would pull down the calendar. 

Everything interesting that happened to the Weasleys went on the calendar. Everything.

So when Molly Weasley burst into the burrow one evening, pushing a buggy full of Christmas presents with one hand and carrying a bleeding child in the other, her red hair like fire and her voice like a fog horn, it was, inevitably, written on the calendar.

 


End file.
